The Hearts of a Hero
by YouLookLikeFOOD
Summary: Sequel to 'The Ability of a Time Lord'. When Sylar was imprisoned in the TARDIS, he promised to escape. Now, it may finally be time. And as everyone aboard the time machine grows uneasy, the serial killer waits in the shadows...
1. Prolouge

Amelia Pond was sitting in a large brown chair, reading a book.

She was fairly certain she was in the library. However, it might have been the swimming pool. The Doctor had supposedly 'fixed' it, but she still found a damp book from time to time.

The library also tended to switch places with the swimming pool; and vice versa. It seemed as though the TARDIS was deliberately trying to confuse her. But she remained persistent. After all, the library was a nice place, when it wasn't underwater.

She sighed heavily, trying to force herself to relax. In the TARDIS, there were very few times when she had a chance to sleep. And while Rory had already succeeded in falling asleep, Amy was not so fortunate.

For a while, she'd stayed by the center console, listening to the Doctor babble on crazily about some bits and bobs and how they worked. And while she only understood half of what he said, she did like listening to him speak.

The only problem was, the Doctor never seemed to sleep. And while she was fine listening to him talk constantly; she knew that it would be impossible to sleep while he was around. His always-hyper, maniac attitude was incredibly infectious, and before long it would be the end of whatever night they had on the TARDIS, and she would find herself running away from a monster, only to end up in dire need of a nap while doing so. It wouldn't help anything if she passed out while they were running away from something with large teeth.

She tossed a book into a corner and pulled another one out from a shelf. To be honest, she was bored. There was nothing to do, nothing to read, nothing but dusty old books that, every so often, were completely soaked.

As she contemplated the next book she would try and read- and most likely fail- her ears pricked. A dull _thud _sounded out.

She whirled around, searching for the source of the noise. Her sharp eyes caught a book, lying flat on the floor.

She sighed, relieved. Being around the Doctor for so long was slightly tiring; every thud, every strange noise now seemed like a menacing threat.

She picked up the book and put it back on the shelf, shaking her head at her own paranoia.

She whirled around again as a shadow darted out of her vision. She swallowed, trying to reason with herself. The Doctor had traveled in this phone box, with its library that was also a pool, for many years. He was bound to have one or two things in the TARDIS that she didn't know about. Who knew, maybe he had a pet cat or something.

She shook her head again. Just paranoia.

* * *

Rory was sleeping.

It wasn't the normal, cat-nap kind of sleep that he got in the TARDIS, where the slightest noise woke you up in an instant, and it took hours to escape to unconsciousness again. No, he was deeply asleep.

So he was incredibly surprised when he found himself waking up. He jolted upright, his eyes staring desperately through the dark. He was sweating, but the room around him was as cold as ice.

For some reason, he was scared. There was something in this room, something dark and menacing. Traveling with The Doctor had given him an instinct for danger, and that instinct was clear and present in this moment.

The room was completely dark, and the only sound he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. There wasn't even the sound of a clock; the Doctor didn't allow them. Something about France and wigs. Rory found it best if he didn't ask.

He stopped breathing for a moment, listening intently. The room was absolutely silent. The noise from the TARDIS engines didn't even reach into this room. It was quiet to the point of unnerving, and his heart worked to change that, pounding loudly in his ears.

He slowly turned on the light, his eyes scanning the room. Nothing. He was alone.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. There was _nothing there. _He was just being paranoid.

Still, he left the light on as he placed his head back on the pillows. Best to play it safe.

* * *

The Doctor was _still _babbling, despite his lack of an audience. Even _he _didn't know quite what he was saying, which, to him, meant that he was doing it exactly right.

He poked the sonic screwdriver at a control, watching it light up in fascination. He turned the green light to his own face, then stumbled backwards, surprised by the intensity.

"BLINDED!" He cried, tripping over his own feet and landing solidly on his back. With a practiced, fluid motion, he was back on his feet, looking around.

"That didn't happen." He said matter-of-factly, then turned back to the TARDIS console.

The hair stood up on his arms and the back of his neck. A shiver traveled down his spine, and he swallowed.

"Now that's strange." He whispered, abruptly serious. The last time he felt this way was when…

He dashed over to the view screen.

He switched the view to one he knew well. He hadn't visited this particular place in a long time, and he didn't, in all truth, care to.

But there was nothing different about this place than there had been every other time he'd seen it. A man sat inside a cold stone room, tossing electricity from hand to hand. The motion was so constant that The Doctor would have worried it was on a loop, had this not been a Lictrosian anti-loop double eight Teka Camera. It was the most expensive video camera in the whole of time and space, unless you'd saved the planet of Lictrosia from being swallowed by a Teker death ant.

He stared at the screen for a very long time, unable to shake the uneasy feeling he had. The last time he'd seen this man, he'd promised to escape. And the Doctor had agreed; in fact, he'd never been more certain of anything in his life.

Finally, he switched it off, sitting down on the bench.

Perhaps the time had finally come.

**A/N: This is my first attempt at writing a story that uses Eleven as the Doctor. Any help with his/Amy's/Rory's characters is welcome. Thank you! **


	2. Tick Tock

Amy sat in the silence, her eyes focused on her book, phasing out every so often. She couldn't concentrate on the words for long; she just stared at them aimlessly for a while.

"He does love the red-heads, doesn't he?"

She jumped, leaping out of the chair. She whirled around, looking for the source of the voice. It had been perfectly clear; a male's voice. One that didn't belong to Rory or The Doctor.

But there was no one there. She was alone; alone in the library, with no one but the books.

And yet, _someone _had spoken.

Slowly, she walked out of the room, to look for the Doctor.

Instead, she found herself facing a man.

She stared. She'd never seen him in her life; and she was fairly certain she'd remember him if she had. His wasn't a face one would be likely to forget. His features were sharp and almost cruel, a smile on his face that could only be described as hateful and dark. The way he looked at her unnerved her more than she cared to admit. He had dark hair that fell into his eyes, which were darker than black holes and glinted with a hidden fire.

"Who are you?" She blurted out.

He chuckled, a hideous, evil sound that sent chills up her spine, making goose bumps travel down her arms. "Of course." His words were a deliacate whisper, soft and venomous. "He never told you about me, did he?"

Amy bristled, her hands curling into fists as she prepared to defend herself, if necessary.

"Hardly surprising; after all, it _is _The Doctor we're talking about." The man slowly circled her, and she turned with him, never turning her back on him, never daring to. "He forgets those he destroys, simply because he can't look back."

"Who are you?" Amy demanded again.

"And it's not very _fair, _is it? I was here, in the TARDIS, a long time before you were, _Amelia Pond_."

Amy felt another shiver course through her. Unlike The Doctor, who said her name as though it was something magical and beautiful, the name in a fairy tale, this man said it as though it was a dark creature, the sort of thing that must be crushed under your foot in disgust.

"Who are you?" She asked again, refusing to give in to the loathing in the man's voice, in his sparkling black eyes.

He chuckled. "Oh, no one of importance, really. Just a serial killer that your precious 'Doctor' has kept locked away, simply because he didn't know how to destroy me."

Amy stared, her eyes widening. She swallowed as the man kept circling, walking with purposeful steps that seemed carefully designed to throw her off balance.

"Even when I told him." The man continued, his voice dropping in volume so that Amy had to strain to hear. "Even when I told him how to kill me, even when I all but _begged _for him to destroy me, rather than to keep me a prisoner, alone and in the dark, for the rest of my life, he refused." The words were tainted with poison.

"So he's gotten what he wants, your precious _Doctor. _He has a serial killer, very much alive, in his TARDIS, ready to destroy anything in his path."

His lips were suddenly right next to Amy's ear. She jumped, but couldn't move; his hand was clamped around her neck in an iron grip.

"Now I need you to do something for me. It's very simple; won't take much of your time. I just need you to tell The Doctor. Just five simple little words."

Amy swallowed with much difficulty, terrified. Oh, she'd faced vampires, and Daleks, and even living statues.

But somehow, within a few seconds of conversation, this man scared her more than any of that ever could.

"Tell him this: "Sylar has kept his promise."

And then he was gone.

* * *

Amy emerged from the other room, pale and shaking. Her hands were trembling.

"Doctor?"

The Doctor, who was still running as though his life depended on it, bounced up to her. "Yes?"

She took a deep breath. "I…Someone… It's complicated, but…" She looked at him. "I have a message for you."

"Oh?" A smile danced on the Doctor's lips. "I see. And who is this message from?"

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know it's…"

"'Sylar has kept his promise.'"

The Doctor froze. All color drained from his cheeks. "I'm sorry?" he breathed.

"That's the message. 'Sylar has kept his promise'."

He swallowed. "Are… Are you sure?"

And suddenly, his hands were on her shoulders. His eyes were gazing intently into hers, panic settled deep within them. "Amy, _are you sure?"_

"Of course I'm sure!" Her fear seemed to have transferred to him, and since he was panicking for her, Amy was free to be angry about everything. "Some guy bursts into the library, tells me that you have a thing for red-heads, grabs my throat and gives me a message and you ask if I'm _sure?_"

The Doctor had released her at 'red-heads', and was now running down the halls. Amy ran after him, yelling all the way, but he didn't seem to notice.

The Doctor kept running, faster and faster, deeper into the maze that was the TARDIS. With the skill that could only be gained by experience, he raced down twists and turns, staircases and even slides. He ran through many different rooms, from the library that was now stinking of chlorine, to a room that seemed to be made entirely out of light, into a place where TV screens peered eerily at its temporary occupant.

He passed these rooms without thought, running, faster and faster. When he finally reached his destination, he all but fell inside, while Amy almost crashed into him.

The room was pitch-black. The Doctor's finger hovered above the light switch for a moment, terrified of what it might see, before throwing it upwards with a clicking finality.

It was the same as it had always been. A small bed, a refrigerator and large container of water, and a bathroom that had been screened off.

The Doctor stared. "No."

Amy looked at it. "Cosy." She muttered.

The Time Lord wasn't listening. "No!" He yelled, then ran, calling, "No no no no no!" as he went.

Back he ran, tearing through the rooms like one who had lost his mind. Somehow,_ impossibly, _he ran even faster than he had before, speeding past everything until he reached the console.

Where he froze.

Amy came up behind him. She stopped in her tracks next to him, staring.

"This place looks like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Did you know that?"

The man standing in front of them wore an enormous smile. It was a strangely terrifying gesture. It haunted his features, drifting lightly across his face. Thick eyebrows framed his dark eyes, which were shining brightly.

The Doctor's hand reached slowly into his pocket, searching for his sonic screwdriver and, upon finding it, aiming it at the man.

"Oh, I wouldn't if I were you…" The man said slowly. He smirked, his finger drifting up to the side of the room, pointing. His eyes followed, and soon, so did Amy's and The Doctor's.

Rory was suspended on the wall, struggling nobly but unable to move. There was nothing visibly confining him, but there was obviously _something _wrong. He also seemed unable to speak, though he was making furious noises at the back of his throat.

The Doctor lowered the sonic screwdriver. His eyes were locked on the man's.

"Now, the way I see it, you have two options. You can either get me off of this machine and back on my own planet, or you can watch as I slit your friend's throat." He smiled broadly. "Tick tock…"

Amy couldn't tear her eyes away from Rory. "Doctor…" She muttered.

The Doctor stared at the stranger, who was laughing lightly. "Come now, Doctor. It shouldn't be a very difficult decision, should it? Or do you _want _your little friend to die?" He smirked, looking in Amy's direction. "Eliminate the competition, perhaps? Yes, I saw that whole problem with the 'Dream Lord' and the choice little Amy here made. Can you honestly say that…"

"Stop talking." The Doctor interrupted him.

"What? Can't stand it when someone talks more than you do?" The man chuckled. "Well, you know how to stop me. Get me off of this thing, get me back to good ol' earth, and I'll leave you alone."

"Why do I have a hard time believing you?" The Doctor looked completely relaxed. But Amy could tell that it was an act. At the very least, she _hoped _it was an act.

"Because you're _learning."_ The man replied, still grinning as though this was all just a game, and truly the most amazing game on earth.

The Doctor's eyes flickered around the room, and straight to the view screen. "Can you at least explain how you managed to fool a camera that never fails?"

The man just laughed. "Tick Tock…" he looked to Rory once more.

"All right, all right, I'm going…"

"And don't think you can drop me off on some miserable rock and be done with it." The man's voice became abruptly serious, to the point of extreme hostility. "I'll know."

The Doctor beamed. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Their eyes locked for a moment, and Amy could almost see them both remembering, could almost see their past, so hidden from her, glittering in their eyes.

The Doctor slowly went around the TARDIS console, pulling a lever, flipping a switch, pressing a button. The man watched his movements carefully, muttering quietly to himself, making silent corrections.

The column in the center slowly rose and fell. The sound of a giant's breathing filled the air, tearing through the vortex, ripping the fabric of reality to deposit the small blue box onto a planet. Apparently his own, because the man nodded in satisfaction.

"That wasn't too hard, was it?" The man asked of the Doctor.

The Time Lord's eyes were locked on his. "Let Rory go," was his only reply.

"In good time." The other man said. The smile, that hideous, evil smile that made Amy's heart skip, was back.

He slowly drifted to the doorway. He threw open the doors and took a deep breath, letting it out in a heavy sigh.

"I'm surprised at you, Time Lord. You're getting soft in your old age." The man returned for only a moment. "I honestly thought you'd try something. Ah, well."

Rory dropped to the floor. He gasped as his efforts to speak were suddenly successful.

"Amy!" He cried, breathless. Amy raced to his side. "Get out…" He whispered. "Get out!"

"What?" She looked at him in confusion.

But it was too late. Something struck her in the back, and she screamed. Her jacket had been set ablaze, and she tried hurriedly to take it off.

"AMY!" The Doctor cried, racing to her side as quickly as his long, skinny legs would carry him.

Amy couldn't see through the tears that were beginning to form. What had happened? Why was she in so much pain? Despite how she'd managed to remove the burning jacket and stamp out the flames, her back still felt as though it was on fire, burning crazily.

She kept screaming, collapsing to the ground, her cheek landing on the TARDIS's cold floor. What was wrong with her?

And somewhere, somehow, something whispered in the back of her mind.

_Silence will fall… _

Amy slowly turned to the dark, allowing it to take her away from the pain, drifting into unconsciousness, into the world of dreams.

* * *

Peter Petrelli hated that stupid blue box.

He hated the man who lived inside the stupid blue box.

He hated the ideas behind the man who lived inside the stupid blue box.

He hated the woman who told him about the ideas behind the man who lifed inside the stupid blue box.

In short, Peter Petrelli hated everything about that stupid blue box.

He hated it even more when it was announced by a phone call. No introduction, no recognizable voice, no real explanation. Just two sentences, a total of eight words.

Just eight.

"He's back. I'll be there in ten minutes."

And then a clicking noise, ending the conversation entirely.

A lot could be said in eight words. In fact, things could be said in much fewer. But it was these eight words that sent Peter's world crashing down around him. Because, despite the lack of information, Peter knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, what these words meant. He knew who was back, and who would be there in ten minutes.

The box had changed. It wasn't much different from when he'd last seen it, but it had changed nonetheless. The blue was darker and the wood less marked. As it materialized in his living room, it confirmed his worst fears.

He let out a long string of swears and expletives, directed at the box, the box's owner, and the prisoner who supposedly had escaped from the box. He let out another, even nastier one as the box's owner, who had changed even more than that blue monstrosity of a time machine had, spilled into the room.

"Doctor!" Peter snapped.

The Doctor looked so different from the last time. He spluttered and pointed back into the box. "I'm not… he's… I'm…You don't…"

Another man all but fell into the room. "Yes, that's me, can we get on with this now?" he spoke the words in a rush, then popped back into the box.

The other man smiled apologetically at Peter, then went back into the box, gesturing for Peter to follow. With a heavy sigh, he did as asked.

The box had changed on the inside as well. It was still much bigger than it was on the outside, but it was much more colorful, with different objects and bits everywhere around it. It no longer looked quite as organic as the one that Peter still had nightmares about. Instead, it had candy-colors, bright and uplifting, despite the fact that there was a maniac running around them, his expression solemn and serious.

"Where's Donna?" Peter asked, gesturing to the dorky-looking kid next to him. Unless she was as inhuman as The Doctor, then he highly doubted that this was her.

"Gone. Home. Fine." The Doctor spoke in clipped sentences, racing around the console with purposeful steps. "Peter, this is Rory. Rory, this is Peter. Say hello."

"Hi." Rory said automatically, then glared at The Doctor for making him say it on command. The Doctor grinned innocently, still running around the TARDIS. Rory extended a hand. "Rory Williams."

"Peter Petrelli." Peter answered, accepting it. "Just you two, then?"

Rory shook his head sadly. "Amy…"

"Sylar." The Doctor explained, his voice as clipped as ever. "Electricity."

Peter nodded slowly. "Is that why I'm here?"

"Part of the reason." The Doctor answered truthfully.

Peter sighed heavily. The last time he'd met The Doctor, he'd had to heal a head wound that Sylar had given Donna. "And the other part?" He asked wearily. The day was already miserable, why not make it worse?

"I need your help."

Peter sighed. "Of course you do. What do you need?"

The Doctor was suddenly next to him, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "I need your help stopping him, of course."

And then he was back to running around the TARDIS. "Rory, get him to Amy, will you?"

Rory nodded, swallowing nervously. He beckoned to Peter as he traveled to the other side of the TARDIS console and into a room beyond it.

He led the hero into a small room, with only a bed and a chair to decorate it. The walls were plain white, as were the sheets that were draped over a figure.

Peter assumed- quite correctly- that this was Amy. She had a kind-looking face and bright red hair that was spread around her face, splayed against her pillow in a thousand directions.

"Where's the wound?" Peter asked, surprised that he couldn't see it.

"Her back." Rory replied quickly. He was wringing his hands, and there was definite concern in his eyes as he looked at the sleeping woman on the bed. "The Doctor said there was some… hydro-something-or-other in the sheet, keeping it from hurting her too badly…"

Peter looked at him. "She your girlfriend?" He asked.

"Fiancee." Rory replied.

"I see." Peter looked back to Amy. "Well, here goes nothing."

He placed his hands on Amy's arm and concentrated. His eyes closed, and he exhaled a deep breath, focusing, thinking…

Amy's eyes snapped open. She gasped sharply, sitting bolt upright. Peter still kept a hold of her arm, and Amy, whose mouth was open in a silent scream, released her pain in a relieved sigh as it vanished completely. The burns on her shoulders, visible beneath her shirt, slowly healed themselves, and her skin returned to a healthy, natural color.

She looked up at Rory, then at Peter, then back to Rory. "What did I miss?"

* * *

Freedom felt good.

Sylar stretched his fingers out, catching the wind in his hands then letting it slide through them, dancing across his skin, blowing his hair into crazy patterns. He closed his eyes. What a day. What a beautiful, wonderful day. What a great day to be out of the TARDIS and back into normal civilization.

He didn't have a particular goal, however, which irritated him slightly. It cast a dark shadow over the perfect day. He needed a purpose, something to do while he waited for The Doctor to find him. He knew it would happen; after all, Sylar had already hurt Amy and Rory, something that The Doctor was not quick to forgive.

Ah, but why bother with The Doctor? Why spoil the day with his tainted memory? Why not forget him, dispose of him as one would a nightmare?

Sylar sighed. Well, freedom was good while it lasted. But The Doctor was a nightmare; a nightmare that somehow managed to bleed into reality and stain the skies with its nature. There could be no carefree thoughts, no possible hope of true freedom. Until one of two things happened; either the Doctor died, or Sylar became more powerful than him.

He sighed heavily. How difficult could it be, really, to become more powerful than a Time Lord with little more than telepathy and a blue box?

But he'd pondered this question before. He'd considered every possible scenario. And it always ended with The Doctor winning. Because he was the Doctor. And The Doctor _always_ won.

Sylar straightened. So he'd just have to outlive him. Find some place on some distant star and outlive the Time Lord. A difficult task, to outlive a time traveller. Sylar would fear him forever.

There truly was no freedom.

He sighed again. So there could only be the other option. Sylar would have to kill The Doctor himself. And there could be no games, no pondering on the Doctor's thoughts, no trying to find out what made his mind _tick. _No, it had to be done as soon as possible. It had to be done the second Sylar had the chance. He had to slit the Time Lord's throat and keep his hands wrapped around them so that he couldn't regenerate. He'd have to go through a few regenerations and kill every one of them.

But first, he had to make it possible.

It would never be easy to kill the Doctor. But Sylar could make the game just a touch more even.

And the first step was to become telepathic.

Matt was the obvious choice. Sylar knew, in general, where he lived. But, at the same time, if things should go wrong, then Matt knew the Doctor. Right now, remaining hidden was Sylar's only option.

But there was another telepath he knew. Someone he'd learned of in an encounter with some old Primatech files…

And there was his answer.

This goal in mind, Sylar allowed a smile to pass across his features. With new purpose, he strode down the street.

The next time he saw the Doctor, he would be ready.


	3. Loss

**A/N: Sorry again for the late update. **

Tia sighed heavily as she all but fell onto her couch. The day had started with a phone call from her brother, and gone downhill from there.

Tia couldn't answer her family's calls. Because she couldn't bring them into the danger that was her life.

She looked up at the ceiling. So much had changed in the two years since she'd discovered her ability.

She picked herself up off the couch and walked to the bathroom. She had to check. She had to see if it was still there.

She looked at herself in the mirror, temporarily distracting herself from the inevitable. She looked so strange, so unlike what she used to. That was, of course, the idea.

Her hair had been dyed jet-black, with streaks of yellow, green, red, orange, and even pink, most of which were gathered near her face. Her shirt was black, with a small star decorated with the same colors as her hair. She wore black jeans and netted black gloves that were cut off at the knuckle. It gave her a teenage look, which was, of course, the idea. The younger she looked, the better. The younger she looked, the less attention she'd gather for herself.

That was the key, she'd long ago realized. She had to look young enough to be ignored, but old enough for people to be wary of trying to hurt her. She had to look helpless enough to be beneath notice, but tough enough to hurt someone if provoked.

Everything about her- from her clothing to her shoes to her makeup- was defined by this image, by this required balance. She'd softened her face considerably with the right kinds of makeup, but also put on thick eyeliner to give her a harder edge. She wore mostly black, but would still stick out with the rainbow of colors she'd put into her hair.

But this was not what she was looking for today. Today, she was looking for the tattoo that she still hoped, after two years, would fade. She took her collar in her hands and pulled it slightly.

She sighed heavily as two small marks were revealed. She released her collar and looked down. She knew nothing about that tattoo, only that it was the source of her problems. Because, ever since those two marks on her neck had appeared, she had been running for her life.

She shook herself off. Enough of feeling sorry for herself. She straightened and walked back out to her living room.

And stopped cold.

Time seemed to freeze. Her first instinct was to pull the knife out of her belt and throw it at the man who had appeared so suddenly in her room. Her second instinct was to run. Her third instinct was to stand her ground and wait for him to make the first move.

Her fourth and final instinct was less of an instinct and more of a conscious thought.

_How?_

How in the world had he managed to get in her house? How in the universe had he managed to pass beneath her notice? How had he managed to block his thoughts from her?

How was he even managing it now?

"Hello, Tia." He said conversationally. He was smiling broadly, a sickly sweet smile that set her on edge. The hair on the back of her neck was standing up, and there were goose bumps rising on her arms.

"Hi." She replied, trying to keep her voice civil. She failed, somewhat miserably.

"You look different from the picture the Company has of you." He spoke again, taking a few steps towards her. She backed away, keeping her eyes locked on him at all times.

"That's the idea." What in the world was the Company? Tia's mind was racing. Could the Company be what did this to her? Could they have given her this ability? Could they be the reason she was always running?

But the more pressing question was, _how is he blocking my ability?_

She concentrated, reaching into his mind, probing at the blackness she found there. Nothing. There was just… _nothing._

"I'm sorry I have to do this." The man continued. There was a malicious sparkle in his eyes that suggested he knew what she was doing. "But I don't have a choice anymore."

Tia pushed her ability ever further, trying not to think too much about his words. She was sweating now, shoving against the black that stopped her.

And suddenly, a flood of memories burst through. She gasped slightly, sucking in a deep breath as thoughts of blood and murder broke through into her mind.

She stumbled back. He was here to kill her. He was going to kill her, just as he'd killed so many. Because of her ability.

She always knew it would get her killed. Just not this soon.

She locked her eyes on him. He was laughing now, as though he'd sensed her victory. That was one thing he was still keeping from her, one thing that she couldn't understand. How he was blocking her, and how much he really knew about her ability.

Suddenly, and invisible force struck her in the chest, throwing her backwards and pressing her against the wall. The man had only moved; just a single hand.

She struggled and kicked, but nothing happened. She wasn't even moving. She _couldn't _move.

Panicked, she looked him in the eye.

"_You don't want to kill me._" She said, her words cool and laced with as much telepathic energy as she could possibly manage. "_You want to leave. You want to leave and never come back._"

For a moment, the light died in the man's eyes. They became vacant and staring, completely unseeing.

"_You don't want to kill me._" She repeated.

It seemed to be working. Relief was just settling in when suddenly, he shook his head, as though clearing it. The light returned to his eyes, which narrowed in clear and perfect focus, absolute and complete.

"You're right." He replied. "I don't. I want to kill _him._"

There was a face, swimming at the top of his memories. The face of a man, a man he hated, a man who had imprisoned him. An energetic, youthful face.

"_You don't-"_ she tried again, but before she could finish, there was an invisible pressure against her neck. She gasped for air, but none would come.

"But I do." The smile was back, more full of loathing then ever. "I really, truly do."

And then came the pain. It sliced through her forehead like fire.

The pressure was released from her throat and she screamed. She screamed as loudly as she could possibly manage. It ripped through the air, tearing through reality as the blood began to pour down her face…

* * *

Sylar watched the crimson run down the drain as he washed off his hands. He smiled to himself. Things were finally going his way.

He passed Tia's body without a second glance, though his thoughts turned to her long after he'd left her home.

Mainly, he was focused on her commands. The ones he shouldn't have been able to ignore.

_You don't want to kill me._

Something had happened in that moment. Right then, he'd lost every thought of killing Tia. The very idea seemed repulsive.

_You want to leave and never come back. _

Yes, he'd wanted that. He'd desperately wanted that. Because it was such a beautiful idea, leaving the house and not returning. There was something wonderful out there, something that he would never see if he killed Tia.

But then something else had pushed back.

_What?_

That one word brushed aside the beauty and made him look at the facts. His world became less hazy, became sharper. He could suddenly focus.

_What is out there? What is so beautiful that you will listen to this voice?_

Reasoning took over as the second voice fought for him, fought against Tia. The two battled, but Tia was thrown aside, her commands releasing his mind in seconds. She was wrong. He did want to kill her.

And kill her he did.

But that still didn't explain what had happened. What had stopped her from infiltrating his mind? What had stopped her commands from controlling him? He hadn't been a telepath at the time.

And there was that feeling. That strange glow inside him, staying perfectly still, its presence perfectly constant. As though someone was watching him, watching his every move, pushing him in the right directions, protecting him.

Something was there.

He shook it off. There was nothing. Because there could be nothing.

He walked off. Killing Tia wasn't enough. Her ability was helpful, certainly, but it just _wasn't enough._

He kept going, striding out across the street and out into the world. Someone else had to die.

* * *

When the Doctor landed the TARDIS, he frowned slightly.

He patted the console, looking up at the column with a concerned expression. "What's wrong old girl? What happened?"

"Doctor?" Amy came in, looking at him. "What are you doing?"

"It's the TARDIS." The Doctor explained, wearing an anxious expression. "Something's wrong."

He continued to stroke the console, whispering quiet words in a language that Amy could not understand, despite the TARDIS's influence in her mind.

Amy listened to the TARDIS's gentle groans, even as it settled onto the earth outside. The time machine seemed unable to stop that heavy, deep sigh that filled the air. There was something terribly depressing in that sound, something that Amy hadn't noticed before…

Tears sprang to her eyes. It seemed that, in her own way, the TARDIS was crying. As though she was mourning something deep and lost, hidden.

Forgotten.

* * *

Sylar stumbled into the small hotel room. He could hardly go home, and this seemed as good as it got. He'd decided to pay for a room, rather than earn himself a room the usual way; killing everything in sight. Though he hadn't exactly gotten the money through legal ways, either. Eh, you couldn't win them all.

He fell backwards onto the large bed, staring up at the ceiling with a vacant expression.

Throughout the day, he'd been forcing himself to keep busy. He'd search for powers, scanning through the passing thoughts of those around him, trying to determine if they had anything he wanted. Now, however, he had no choice but to rest, to try and slip into unconsciousness or risk blacking out on some nameless street.

He sucked in a few deep breaths. He wasn't entirely sure why he had been avoiding sleep. But some part of him dreaded this, and desperately wanted to evade the thoughts that were slowly beginning to creep into his mind, now that it was no longer occupied.

The idea that someone or something was watching him had not yet left him. That strange glow seemed to be nestled in his consciousness and refusing to budge. But there was something else to it, an ache that he'd never felt before in his life. He needed something. Something that wasn't power, that wasn't control over his life or the death of another. Something that he'd once had, something he'd lost.

He closed his eyes, willing a picture of this unnamable object to appear behind his eyelids. He allowed his mind to drift, to drag up an image of the thing he wanted most in the world.

The room that appeared before him was strange and unexpected. He nearly snapped his eyes back open, bolting out of the room and running from it. It looked to be made of stone, but there was something colder and more confining about it. It was simply furnished, with little more than a bed and a small refrigerator, with a small bathroom that had been screened off.

His old prison, back on the TARDIS.

For a second, he panicked. But something else began to emerge. A shimmering, glittering fog. Sylar could feel it, seeping into the darkest corners of his heart and mind, reaching for his thoughts.

A bright light spilled into the room. It was beautiful, twisting and flowing around him. He gasped sharply, and his eyes suddenly opened.

He was alone. Alone in a hotel room with no one watching him, no one taking care of him, no one pushing him in the right direction.

He curled into a ball, surprised at the sudden and unexpected agony that flashed through him. He cried out, squeezing his eyes shut as though to block out the pain. His heart was pounding rapidly, echoing in his ears.

"No!" He gasped. "No! Don't leave me!"

He fell off the bed and onto the floor, where he stayed, retching, on his hands and knees. He was trembling violently, unable to understand what had happened.

But whatever had been there, whatever had helped him before, whatever it had been, it was gone. And Sylar was more along than anyone could ever know.

Shaking, he curled into a ball and began to sob.

* * *

Molly Walker snapped awake. She shivered violently, her skin pale and her eyes hollow and cold. Quivering, she pulled off the covers and walked to the mirror, flicking on the light switch as she went. Every night, the same old dream, the same old nightmare. She sighed deeply and looked at her worn, haggard face in the mirror.

She closed her eyes, imagining the man from her dark dreams, picturing his location. She'd never been able to pinpoint him, not since the day when the man came with the blue box, and the woman who should never have been there. It was always a comfort, knowing that he was no longer on the Earth, that he was on some foreign planet, far away where she would never see him again.

But, surprisingly, she felt something. A small light, beaming out from all of the others. Her eyes flew open, her hand flying to her mouth in disbelief and horror. She could not stop the scream that ripped from her lungs as she stumbled away from the mirror and out the door to her room, scrambling to get away.

She raced to the front door, unable to help the panic that was rapidly beginning to rise. She pounded her fists against the wood, screaming, but too terrified to try and actually open the door. She remained this way until she felt two arms wrap around her, heard soft reassurances in her ear.

"Molly, Molly! What's wrong, what happened? Molly?" Matt Parkman's voice was filled with concern and anxiety. She collapsed in his arms, crying.

"He's back." She breathed, tears rolling down her cheeks in an unstoppable flow. "He's back, Sylar, he's back, he came back…"

She felt his muscles tense, his entire body going completely rigid. She tried to ignore it, telling herself that Matt was here now, that she was safe, that Sylar couldn't hurt here anymore. But no matter how many times she thought it, she couldn't believe the words herself.

* * *

Never, in the whole of time and space, had the words 'saved by the bell' been more accurate.

The Doctor, Rory, and Amy were all looking at Peter, expecting him to give an answer. To tell them where Sylar was, to give them a new strategy to defeat him. But he could think of nothing.

Suddenly, his phone rang out shrilly. Peter silently let out a breath of relief and dashed off to answer it.

"Hello?" He asked urgently.

"Peter. It's Matt." His voice was grim. "Sylar's back."

"I know. I was just going to call." Peter, of course, was going to do no such thing. But those words had given him an idea. A mad, wild, crazy idea that just might work. "I think we can stop him. But we'll need everyone."

"And who does 'everyone' include?"

"You, Hiro, Claire, if her father lets her… Actually, Noah would work. Everyone you can find."

"And what about him?"

"The Doctor? He's here. He's… changed, but he's here." He paused. "See if you can talk to any of the others. I'll call you back." He hung up without waiting for a response. Smiling to himself, he walked into the other room. The trio of time travelers looked to him expectantly, and he grinned broadly.

"I have an idea."

* * *

Sylar drained his glass in one swallow, placing it back on the counter wearily. The bar was a small, simple place. Nice enough, as bars went. The bartender was a talkative man, speaking freely with his customers, getting them to spill all of their secrets when they were dead drunk. Sylar scowled; there would be no such lapses of control from him. Not since he'd taken Claire's ability.

He sighed as he looked at the incredibly strong drink in front of him. Had he been normal, he would already be drunk. This was, after all, the third bar he'd been to in as many hours. He liked to keep moving, to avoid any suspicion when he didn't end up passing out on a table.

He knew that he was simply doing this out of habit; there was nothing that the alcohol could do for him, no way it could numb his mind against the pain of loss he felt, pounding at the back of his skull, as though willing to rip it apart. He looked down at the counter, tracing patterns in the wood grain. It wouldn't be so bad if he had some kind of idea about what was making him feel this way.

"You know, you don't look so good." The bartender said in a concerned voice. Sylar looked up at him, his eyes bloodshot, not from the alcohol, but from the lack of sleep. "Maybe you've had enough…?"

Sylar was unable to keep the bite of bitter anger from his voice as he replied, "Afraid I'll scare away your more high-class customers?"

"Not at all." The man quirked an eyebrow, seemingly immune to Sylar's remarks. "I'm afraid you'll crash your car on the way home. I hope you've got someone to drive you."

"I'll drive 'im…" A man said, his words slurred.

"I'm sure you will, Harold." The bartender said patronizingly. His tone was not without cause; moments later, Harold slumped into his seat and began to snore loudly. Sylar snorted and turned away, downing a second glass and running his hand over his face as the bartender walked off.

There was a light jingle from the bells on the door as it opened, allowing a fluttery, nervous-looking woman inside. Sylar eyed her coldly as she ordered a small, fruity drink that slid over to her in a tiny glass. Shaking slightly, she took a slow sip, before wrinkling her nose and placing it back on the counter, clearly intent on not touching it again.

She swiveled impatiently on the stool, looking towards the door every few seconds, chewing her nails with ferocity. Her eyes did a quick run over the customers, passing briefly over Sylar before halting and flying back in his direction. For a moment, she openly stared at him, her eyes wide. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wondering if he knew this woman, or if he'd ever tried to kill her. He forgot these things sometimes.

Her head tilted to the side, and she gave a little gasp, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. He scowled at her, trying to escape her attention, but it was focused solely on him and no other.

"You have a problem?" He demanded at last, meeting her gaze, shocked by the intensity in her electric blue eyes.

"No!" She squeaked, whirling away from him. He saw her duck her head, as though silently swearing at her own stupidity. She straightened, hesitated, then ducked her head again, glowering moodily at the counter.

Slightly intrigued but mostly annoyed, Sylar sighed heavily. This would give him nothing but trouble until he figured out what was going on, so he walked over to her and sat down in a seat next to her. She blushed furiously, turning away.

"Name?" He asked, forcing his voice to soften.

She looked at him. "Glitch."

He snorted. "Seriously."

"I _am _serious. It's a seriously fake name."

Unable to help himself, he smiled. "It's a ridiculous fake name."

She grumbled something under her breath, something that sounded suspiciously like, "You thought of it."

"All right, 'Glitch.'" He rolled his eyes. "What's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem." She muttered, placing her glass against her lip and pretending to take a sip. Sylar's eyes narrowed, and the glass went flying from her hand, shattering against the wall.

The bartender jumped, looking at the two of them suspiciously as he hurried over to pick up the remains of the fruity drink. People shot wary glances at the two of them, as though wondering how a glass suddenly flew into the air and threw itself at a wall.

But Glitch just sighed heavily, showing no signs of surprise at his telekinesis. She ordered a second drink from the bartender and turned to Sylar, running a hand through her short, very light brown hair.

"All right." She growled, glaring at him. "If that's what you want to do."

She suddenly placed a hand directly over his heart. He gasped loudly as unexpected pain lanced through him. A dull ache permeated his skin, drifting over his heart, creeping to his lungs, infecting him slowly. She removed her hand, and he could breathe again. He sucked in the air gratefully as the pain began to recede.

"Abilities are funny things, aren't they?" Glitch mused, taking the new drink from the bartender and sipping slowly. She seemed to like this one better than she had the last, and she clamped both hands around it.

Sylar's eyes flashed. Yes. Abilities were funny things. And hers could help him so much…

His mind ran through multiple plans on how to get her out of here, to someplace where they would be alone, where he could butcher her in the dark… She said nothing through his thoughts, quietly sipping her drink. Just as he was about to ask if they could take this conversation to a more 'private' area, she spoke up.

"Finished thinking of how you're going to kill me yet?"

He swallowed back his words, scowling at her, a bitter taste in his mouth. He unleashed it in a single, near-silent swear, and Glitch's lips quirked upwards in a smile.

"I wouldn't kill me, though, if I were you." Glitch continued, looking to him. The fluttery, nervous person who had entered the bar had all but vanished, though a portion of her remained in her electric-blue eyes.

"Oh?" Sylar asked. "Why not?"

She shot him a strange look. It was some kind of mix between rueful, angry, hurt, and smug. She stood, paying for her drink and, almost as an afterthought, for Sylar's. She beckoned to him once, then strode out the door.

He hesitated for a moment. Outside, there could be anything waiting for him. An army, another hero, perhaps even the Doctor. He didn't know who this 'Glitch' was, but she was unknown and unexpected. Sylar hated the unknown and unexpected.

And yet, at the same time, he was intrigued. Something about her screamed 'dangerous'. 'Dangerous' and 'knows something'. He could ignore the dangerous part, if only for the sake of learning what she knew. And then, maybe, taking that danger from her, taking it on himself.

He shifted slightly in his seat, hovering, standing, sitting, standing again. Finally, he took a deep breath.

And pushed his way out of the door.

Glitch was waiting for Sylar with an almost-smirk on her face. She gestured for him to follow her once more, and he obeyed.

The two walked for a long time, then Glitch called to a taxi. They drove one way for a while, then the other. Sylar soon lost track. Glitch was keeping a careful eye on the driver, giving different directions constantly, switching them from time to time with some excuse that she was 'such a scatterbrain', 'very forgetful' and 'so sorry'. Sylar had a feeling that it was far more sinister than that, but the driver didn't seem to mind; it meant more money in his pocket, after all.

Finally, they were deposited in a nice-looking shopping area in some town Sylar had no name for. He raised his eyebrows, but Glitch said nothing as she walked on, weaving her way through buildings and streets precisely.

Eventually, she found her way to a smaller, quiet area of the town, walking directly up to a house with a patched up roof, fading paint, and multiple water stains. Sylar almost protested, but Glitch knocked on the door.

"It's me." She said quietly, pulling out a small silver key and unlocking it. Sylar noticed that the lock was much nicer than the rest of the house.

The immediate entrance to the building was a small hallway, turning directly left. Glitch stalked down the hall, turning into a door on the left, opening it quickly. She slammed it in Sylar's face, as though she'd forgotten that he was there. Irritably, he knocked on it, slightly worried to simply push his way through. Glitch answered, shaking her head darkly, then closing the door back in his face once more.

He listened carefully, grateful for the ability which greatly sharpened his hearing. Glitch talked in mummers to someone else, perhaps a man. His voice was cracking and dry, as though he hadn't spoken for years. And it wasn't the only sound; there was something else, a sort of muffled ticking.

"He is listening." The voice said in a whisper.

"Probably." Sylar could hear the shrug in Glitch's words.

"No. I know him; he's listening."

"Then let him listen."

There was a pause, then Glitch asked worriedly, "Are you sure you're ready for this? He's not the man you think he is."

"No. He is everything I expect; he just isn't what you thought he would be."

Glitch remained silent, and Sylar knew that the other voice had struck a nerve.

"He's… he's just so different."

"He'll change."

"It's… hard to come to terms with it."

"I understand." The man took a deep breath, letting it out in a heavy sigh. "There isn't much time. Bring him here."

Sylar stepped back from the door as Glitch's footsteps came towards it. She threw the door open, gesturing for him to follow quickly, and he obeyed.

The first thing he noticed was an abnormally large number of clocks, hanging on the wall. The second thing he noticed was the fact that this room was a near exact replica of his old shop. Clocks everywhere, a small desk with a large magnifying glass, small metal pieces scattered around in an order that only he could ever recognize. His stomach began to twist uneasily. Whoever this person was, they knew him well. Too well.

There was one difference from his shop, however. In the corner was a small chair. Sitting in it was a figure, hidden in the shadows. Glitch led Sylar towards it, and he could hear its breathing; labored, catching constantly in his throat with a slight gurgling noise.

"I had a feeling you'd come." It was the same voice as before; cracked and ancient. "Especially if I sent Glitch; you're too curious for your own good." The figure laughed a rumbling laugh that was abruptly cut off by a loud coughing fit. Blood splattered on the ground in front of it, and Sylar recoiled slightly.

The figure stood shakily, still hidden by the darkness. "I'm glad you came. I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold on. But I knew you wouldn't listen to me; not the way I will be." The figure took a step forwards, into the light. "There is only one person you'd believe."

Sylar stumbled backwards, his eyes widening in shock and horror. He swallowed convulsively, his mouth going dry. He shook his head minutely, subconsciously, unable to quite believe what he was seeing.

But it was true; there could be no denying that past the graying hair, the wrinkles on the face that weren't there currently, Sylar was looking at an exact duplicate of himself. The other Sylar was much older, but his features were still perfectly distinct; the thick eyebrows, the dark, smoldering eyes that always glinted with a hunger that no one else could understand, the cruelly handsome face… it was all there.

"Only one person _we'd _believe." The older Sylar said. He coughed again, and blood stained his lips. He looked at the other somewhat pityingly.

"I'm sorry about this." He said. "Really I am. But I don't have another choice." He closed his eyes and began to glow very faintly. "My time's up."

He took a deep, shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut ever tighter. The glow intensified, and the other Sylar stumbled backwards. The older Sylar's back arched, his face turning towards the ceiling, and he cried out loudly.

The glow turned into flowing light that danced around him, shooting out of his hands and face. It twisted around him as he screamed, slowly changing him.

Sylar watched in horror as light continued to sweep over the other version of himself. It swept through his hair, lengthening it, turning it into a strawberry blonde. It flickered over his eyes, brightening them into twin pools of jade. His skin darkened, his lips shrank minutely, his entire shape changed.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The glow died, and a new man collapsed to the ground, steadying himself with one hand as Glitch fluttered over to his side worriedly. Sylar stared at the stranger, swallowing back his fears and trying to quell his shaking.

The other man smiled ever-so-slightly, an almost sweet smile, showing his brilliantly white teeth.

"Well, Sylar," Were his first words. "We succeeded."


	4. The Wrong Ones

**A/N: Sorry for the _incredibly _late update, especially with that cliff hanger I left you on. I'm going to try and update this more frequently now; this and all of my other stories. **

Sylar stumbled backwards, his eyes wide in horror. "No."

The other man ignored him, standing and turning to face Glitch. He smiled brightly at her, and she stared, as though unsure quite what she was seeing.

"Glitch, could you get the mirror for me?" He asked politely. She nodded and dashed off. The smile vanished.

"I suppose you're wondering what this is about." He continued, not looking to Sylar, who was falling to the ground, shaking his head and whispering 'no' multiple times. "It's a rather… complicated story. And also very long."

Sylar looked up at him through his clawed fingers, disbelief shining in his dark eyes. The other man sat down across from him, never looking him in the eye, keeping his gaze on anything and everything but Sylar.

"I suppose I should start with the change." The other man started, but Glitch had already returned, cutting him off. She handed the mirror to him, and he took it from her with a courteous 'thank you' and looked into it. He ran his hand over his face, gently feeling the shape of his features, coming to terms with them. His eyes were large and wide-spread, his hair thick and wavy. He had a small nose and tan skin, along with a very 'trustworthy' face. Whilst still looking at his reflection, the other man spoke to Sylar.

"You remember, of course, the things you saw in the TARDIS." The man said. Sylar just stared. "The Daleks, the Reality Bomb, the DoctorDonna. What you don't remember is what's happening now; and what will happen in your future."

"My future…" he muttered, then, louder, "But your past, I take it?"

"Correct." The other Sylar nodded in approval. "And that is a tale worth telling, I can assure you." He gave his younger self a cold, long look. "And worth _changing._"

* * *

Glitch had ducked out of the room as the two Sylars began speaking. She now sat in another room, feeling very cold and very unnerved. A small boy entered the room, his feet whispering across the floor. He sat next to her on the loveseat, taking her hand. She looked to him, startled, as though she had not noticed his appearance.

He was just a young little thing, so small and tiny. But there was a wise glint in his eyes as he asked, "Was it him?"

Glitch swallowed painfully. "Yeah. It was him."

The boy looked away, staring at a rather curious work of artwork above a fireplace. The painting depicted two men, one who was glowing brilliantly, light shooting in all directions around his body. The second man was choking the first, standing very close, the light dancing around him as well.

The curious thing about this picture, however, was not the show of violence. It was the way that both men looked exactly the same. Both were thin, tall men, with a large amount of brown hair that stuck up in crazy directions. Both were wearing tweed jackets with elbow patches, suspenders, and bow ties.

The boy blinked, then asked, "Do you think he will succeed?"

Glitch sighed heavily. "I don't know," she answered truthfully. "I hope so."

The boy looked down to his hand, then flicked his wrist carelessly. Immediately, flames burst into life on his hands. "If he does," he said, very slowly, "What will it mean for us?"

"I'll tell you what it means," a new voice joined the conversation. A teenage girl, younger than Glitch but older than the boy, perhaps fifteen, stood leaning in the doorway. She had her arms crossed over her chest and a scowl on her face. Unlike the others, who shared a common look to their face- pale brown hair, electric blue eyes, small nose- she looked completely different. Her hair was pitch-black, and her eyes the most cutting, cruel violet you'd ever see. In all honesty-as all three of those gathered knew very well- she looked like no one. She didn't share her parent's looks, though she did have her father's foul temperament. She didn't have her mother's blue eyes like the rest of the family did. She didn't have any similar characteristics whatsoever. Her last regeneration had wiped them out entirely.

"It means we'll never have existed," she said firmly. Her long silver earrings jingled quietly as she nodded. "Because he'll have never existed," she jerked a thumb in the direction of the door Glitch had just left. "And never married mom, and never had us." Glitch looked away; the boy, however, kept his eye on the other girl. "There's a reason for our stupid names, there's a reason we've been told since the day we were born that we're anomalies. Because we are. We were never meant to exist. We're the whack jobs of the universe, the laughing stock of the time stream. And when this is over, we _won't _exist. End of story."

The boy considered her words carefully, but Glitch just rolled her eyes. "Just shut it, Vitora. You know they called us that just so we'd know we were different; not because they didn't want us to exist."

"Speak for yourself," Vitora said harshly. "Who names their kid after a mistake?"

"_Nick_names," Glitch said coldly. "You know we can't use real names, we may mess things up. Names are dangerous."

"Oh, so they name their kid _Take?" _She asked, gesturing broadly to the little boy. "After a…"

_"Mis_take, yes," the boy said carefully. "I'm full aware of the meaning of my own name. And, to be honest, I'm not upset." He looked at his shoes. "Our parents had a sense of humor. If they had truly named us these things, instead of had them as the names we use to interact with the rest of the world, perhaps I would be unhappy. But they didn't and I'm not. I know that they aren't referring to the fact that we're alive; they're referring to the fact that we shouldn't be. They revel in the mistake; they don't despise it."

Vitora snorted.

"At least your name isn't so obvious," Glitch pointed out. "No one on Earth knows the real meaning. Except the odd alien and, of course, us."

Vitora glared at the painting above the mantelpiece. "Yeah. But we do, don't we?" She sighed heavily. "It's selfish, really. If you're going to change your past like that, don't have kids in the first place!"

"You know he didn't know he was going to have to change it," Take admonished quietly. "It's not his fault."

"Yes it is," She snarled in response, "Because he's still changing time just for his own benefit. If you can't do the time, don't do the crime; she's still screaming for a reason, still in his head because of what _he _did."

"That's enough, Vitora," Glitch snapped, sounding every bit the older sister she was. "He has to change this. He has to save the Doctor. You've known this every day of your life, now suck it up and deal with it, understood? We weren't meant to be here and now we're fixing it. That's it; it's _done."_

"It's not our fault!" Vitora bit out, "We didn't ask to be here, we didn't ask to have to help him, we didn't ask for any of this crap!" Her violet eyes crackled as she strode towards the exit. "Why he's doing it _now_ doesn't matter. I'd bet my life that he's not convincing his younger self by saying that the world will be saved- but then, my life's not worth much anyway, is it?" She rolled her eyes, clenching her fists at her sides and looking surprisingly violent. "He's just telling him of his own punishment, something that's his own damn fault, just telling him the _consequences _that pertain to _him! _Not to the rest of the world; the world sucks! Sylar could care less about the world!"

The other two flinched visibly at the name, but Vitora looked too angry to care. Without warning, she stalked off, leaving them behind. Glitch and Take fell silent for a very long time.

"Well, one good thing about this; we won't have to hear that anymore." Glitch joked hollowly. Take gave her a look to show what poor taste it was in, but she didn't even glance in his direction; she knew already. He looked back to the painting.

"She's so quick to use his name," Take said slowly. "Do you suppose her own… 'Problem' is returning?"

Glitch shivered. "I hope not. Having Sylar around is bad enough. Sylar and Vaila… That's a match made in hell if ever I saw one."

Despite the almost-fear in his sister's eyes, Take seemed only moderately concerned about the subject, if anything. And, after a moment, he changed the subject entirely. "Do you think he has told Sylar of his… change of heart?"

"He will."

"You sound confident."

"He told me he would," Glitch shrugged. "He wants," she swallowed, "_Sylar_ to know all of the options available to him. He knows it's the best way to convince him." She sighed heavily. "I just hope he listens."

"Perhaps," Take said slowly, musingly, his eyes narrowed on the door, "We should give him something to listen to."

* * *

Sylar fidgeted in the seat across from the other man, who had insisted he call him 'Gabriel'- a thought which made Sylar shiver- and continued to smile, talk openly. Sylar felt a little strange; he knew this man was himself, but seeing him like this, so gentle, so… off… it felt wrong. He wasn't the same man as Sylar himself, and he had to wonder what had happened to change him back to Gabriel. And he had more than a nagging suspicion that it had something to do with the fact that the other man had _regenerated._

Gabriel smiled sheepishly at him. "I suppose you're wondering what this is all about."

"No shit," Sylar answered bluntly. Gabriel just gave him a patient look, like the look a parent gives a child when they're having a tantrum.

"Let me begin by asking you this; the day you discovered the DoctorDonna. What did you do?"

Sylar gave him a bitter stare. "Nothing. I was _imprisoned._"

Gabriel went perfectly still for a moment, a telltale sign that he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Then, carefully, he asked, "But what were you thinking when you saw it?"

Sylar pretended to consider these words, but they both knew the exact thoughts that had gone through his mind at that point in time. Finally, tired of waiting, Gabriel said it for him.

"'There _is _another way.'"

Sylar scowled at him. "I've thought it through. There's no way to have that whole Time-Lord-Human-Metacrisis thing without regeneration energy."

Gabriel shrugged, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Which you can't get without killing the Doctor. Or, at least, making an attempt."

"Exactly. It's nigh impossible."

"Unless," Gabriel's eyes narrowed on Sylar. "You have another way in."

Sylar looked away. "It's just a theory."

"It's not theory. It's fact. I am living proof."

Sylar's eyes whipped up to the other man. "You… You're half… that explains…I mean, the regeneration, the… it explains…"

"Everything," Gabriel put in, nodding his approval. "It explains everything." He leaned forwards, pressing the tips of his fingers together and looking Sylar in the eye sternly. "Now, allow me."

Instead of blowing the older man off, Sylar leaned forwards as well, instantly enraptured. Gabriel smiled wanly at him, then began.

"Like you know, it started with the DoctorDonna. Upon this point, I was convinced that this was the key to the power the Time Lord had; this was the only way I could gain the same abilities he had. He could fly the TARDIS, he had the insane intelligence of the most brilliant madman, and he could regenerate. All these things I wanted, all of these things I _needed._"

Sylar waited impatiently; he'd lived that part already. Gabriel continued, "So I had reached the point you have; I had escaped the TARDIS, gleaned telepathy from Tia, and realized what you have." At this, he winced, but forced himself onwards. "That I, unlike anyone else in the universe save the Doctor himself, have a strange, indefinable connection to the TARDIS. That is why I was so lonely, why I felt like I needed to return, why I was protected from Tia's telepathy. That TARDIS was protecting me, while at the same time calling me back to her.

"I decided to use this advantage. The Doctor had called Peter, who had in turn called upon the others of our kind. They were gathering an army against me, an army of those who despised me. But that didn't matter. While the Doctor was gone, I entered the TARDIS; she opened her doors without key or question, welcoming me back like an old friend, whispering in my mind, practically singing…" There was a light smile on his lips as he closed his eyes, as though hearing that song again, happy for that moment. But then he opened his eyes again, and they turned hollow and cold.

"I changed my shape, taking on the form of the Doctor himself. When he and his companions returned to the TARDIS, this had two advantages; first, I immediately threw out accusations that he was not the Doctor, I was. This confused them enough to keep them off me just long enough. And, when I slit his throat, the second advantage came into play." He hesitated. "When the DoctorDonna was created, it was because he used his hand as… a genetic copy, if you will, so that he wouldn't need to change his form. My DNA matching the Doctor's did the same. He didn't need to change, and thus there was quite a bit of extra regeneration energy."

"But the Doctor… I… _we…" _He frowned, glaring at the carpet as though it were responsible for his problem with pronouns of time-travelers. "We couldn't copy them-him or his companions- exactly in the old days. They had… background radiation or something."

Gabriel nodded. "Yes. But that was before we traveled in time."

Sylar scowled, feeling like an idiot. He should have known that. But Gabriel just smiled.

"If I may continue…?" At Sylar's curt nod, he went on, "So now I had it all. The power of a Time Lord, enough, perhaps, to destroy him. To save my own life. But then the TARDIS… reacted. Rather violently.

"I remember, at first, a blinding scream. Like a woman, shrieking, a horrible sound in the back of my skull. I lashed out, trying to stop it, trying to get rid of it. I ended up only destroying the others in the TARDIS; and that made her all the more furious."

Sylar frowned. "I… didn't know she was capable of that."

"She isn't. Except with those she loves." Gabriel shrugged, throwing the word out there almost casually. "She was so deep-rooted in my head that, when I went so far as to make an attempt on the Doctor's-_her _Doctor's- life… she tried to rip herself out. Tear herself out of my brain permanently, leave me in the cold, echoing silence, and leave me all alone… forever."

Sylar swallowed. He had only been in that place once in his life. And he _never _wanted to be there again.

"She threw me back in time, desperate to fix what was wrong, desperate to right the wrong. Especially when, as she pulled herself away… I completely lost my mind. And I killed everyone in there. Her floors were soaked in blood, and she screamed and screamed and _screamed…_"

Gabriel looked down and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing very heavily. Sylar swallowed, trying to think of something to say, but he could think of nothing. But then Gabriel spoke again, not looking up but murmuring into his palm. Still, his voice rang clear. "She sent me back a long time; too long, to be honest. By the time you were about to arrive, I was nearly dead from old age; hence the need to regenerate. However, by this time, I'd also found other things. I fell in love, got married…" his eyes locked on Sylar's and darkened. "Had three children."

Sylar ran a hand over his face, but he didn't look surprised. "Glitch."

"Yeah," A snide, sarcastic voice came from the other end of the room. Sylar looked to the spot, jumping. He was never surprised; he could hear heartbeats, footsteps, whatever; no one could sneak up on _him. _But he hadn't heard her come in.

It was a young girl with black hair and violet eyes. Her features were cruel, her eyebrows high and her cheeks hollow and thin. "Glitch. An error in the system."

"Vitora!" Gabriel snapped, the kind of parental tone reserved for when guests were around, the tone that let you know you were doing something wrong, and your guest know that you were ever-so-sorry and this was being punished and wouldn't happen again. But Sylar was more focused on the word than the tone.

"Vitora." He said slowly, quietly, testing the word. He'd heard it before, he was certain.

"At any rate," Gabriel said, giving a harsh glare to Vitora, who scowled viciously in reply. "These things are unable to be helped. What must be done now is that you must _not _try and kill the Doctor. The universe needs him too much to allow that to ever happen." Sylar looked blank, his eyes on the ground. "And I know that this _can _be changed. It's a temporal tipping point; things will go one way or another. And they can go in either direction; another one of the problems being a Time Lord gives you." Gabriel frowned; he was losing his audience. Sylar's eyes flicked to Vitora and remained locked solely on her, narrowed and curious.

Still, Gabriel tried to speak above the roaring, thick silence that was shared between the three of them; from Sylar's brooding, curious quiet to Vitora's hostile silent wall. "You see everything; all that could be. All that must be. All that must not. Fixed points and times still in flux; and it drives you mad."

"That's it," Sylar said, his Eureka moment come and gone in one quick, silent phrase. He stood suddenly and was in front of Vitora in a heartbeat, so close as to make her bristle, looming down in front of her. Yet she held her head high, so much smaller than him but somehow standing as tall as he was.

"Vitora. It's a word from the southern continental language of Aura 5. The Doctor took Amy there once, back before Rory joined the TARDIS."

Vitora locked eyes with him. "And what," she asked through her teeth, the words hissing out, "Does it _mean?_"

He looked at her, his own eyes serious, dead. "I know that, too. The TARDIS translated it in my head." His eyes narrowed. "It means immoral. Indecent. Better yet, _wrong. _If something is Vitora, then everything in the known universe, all that is good and just in the world, rebels against it. So why," her breath hitched in her throat as she heard the beginning of his inevitable question, "Is that the name of some teenage girl?"

"More importantly," he inquired, taking another step forwards-she refused to take one back- "Why is it the name of my would-be daughter?"

There was another long, thick silence. Then, Gabriel, rapidly losing control over the situation, tried to regain it. "Vitora, step away. _Now_. Sylar, our discussion wasn't finished."

He was ignored. Vitora and Sylar didn't even blink as they stared directly at each other. They looked as though they would be more comfortable circling each other, trying to find a weakness, a place to attack. A leisurely smirk crawled onto Vitora's features.

"VAILA!" Gabriel snapped harshly. Vitora just grinned all the wider, all the more vicious. Sylar, however, was startled.

"Vaila. The same language." He said the words slowly.

"And what," she said slowly, playfully. Like the way a cat toyed with a mouse. "Does it _mean?_"

They gave in and began circling each other slowly. It was as though Gabriel didn't exist; the two of them could only look at each other, could only make sure that the other didn't stab them in the back. Finally, Sylar answered her question.

"Darker half. The worst part of oneself. The side you keep hidden, locked up from the rest of the world."

She laughed, a girlish little giggle that made sure he was completely unsurprised when twin blades whipped out from underneath her long sleeves. "Very good, daddy dear."

They switched direction; the movement wasn't planned, but it was executed flawlessly. The two of them decided to move in the opposite direction at exactly the same time and did so at exactly the same time. Action and reaction; they were the same.

"All right, I'll bite," he said, feeling his old, killer's instincts kicking in again. It felt good to be back in the business, back to the slaughter. Forget Tia; Tia was a minor nuisance on the way to a bigger challenge. "Obviously, you have another name." He drew it out, long and quiet. "_Vaila…_"

"Oh, not just another name. Another personality. Another _me._" She giggled again. "Think about it this way. Who were you, watchmaker? What was your name?"

Sylar glanced towards his older self. "Gabriel." He answered.

Vitora-Vaila?- laughed. "Precisely. And I was Vitora." The blades whipped out at her sides, carving intricate patterns in the air, slowly arcing back and forth as she twirled them through her fingers. "And now who are you?"

His eyes narrowed as it all clicked together. "Sylar."

"And I am Vaila," she answered, giving a low, sweeping bow without ever taking her eyes off of him. "Vitora is Gabriel's daughter. Vaila is yours."

"You have intuitive aptitude." It wasn't a question.

"Of course," she shrugged carelessly. "Oh, you've no _idea _how much _fun _it was! Starting out as this stupid little girl who should never have existed, and learning that I could take out a few others on the way. And, of course, you let me rip your head off, get some abilities that way." She grinned viciously. "Because you knew what it was like, Sylar. That need. That _hunger._ You want power so _badly _and you can't _stop yourself…"_

"That is _enough!_" Gabriel cut in, successful at last as he burst in between the two of them. Had he been human, Sylar would have thought he knew nothing about what he was dealing with. Had he just been another hero, Sylar would have said he was an idiot. But as he was… Sylar thought both.

Vaila giggled a final time, then began to back away, her feet dancing across the ground as she waved. "Nice to see you've always been a selfish bastard. At least we know I haven't lost _everything _from the family."

And with that, she was gone.

Gabriel shook his head slowly, sighing. "I don't know about that child," he said, like the cliché dad of every TV sitcom ever made _ever. _"Don't worry about her. She's lashing out at me-and therefore at you- because… this decision will lead to the possibility that she will never have existed. She's just scared."

Sylar, without even thinking about it, corrected him. "She's too hurt to be scared."

Gabriel looked to him and lifted an eyebrow. Sylar felt the older man's gaze pierce him and squirmed uncomfortably, unnerved. He could handle Vaila. She was just another killer. Gabriel, however, was him. And he didn't really like himself at the best of times; it was much harder when you were an old man. An old man who had regenerated and now looked nothing like you. Sylar shivered.

"And how would you know that?" Gabriel asked, a little stiffly. His tone implied the words: _you think you could do better with her than I have?_

But that would have been a very stupid question.

Sylar shrugged. "She's just like me. The killer me, not the mushy-gushy, lovey-dovey, need-to-save-the-world me. Namely you. You gave her a name that literally means the worst thing in the universe, you've told her all her life that she shouldn't exist, that you're doing everything you can to make sure that she _doesn't _exist_, _and you're surprised she starts ripping off people's heads." He snorted. "It wasn't that hard for _you._"

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "It doesn't matter any more. The deed is done. You will not kill the Doctor." His tone brooked no argument. "Correct?"

Sylar rolled his eyes, but he knew. He believed his older self, completely and absolutely. As Gabriel turned to exit the room, telling Sylar that he should make himself comfortable, as he was staying here for the night, he managed to get in one final, parting shot.

_"The other two were just fine with it,_" He hissed as he left. "_They know their responsibility to time. They know what they must do._"

And then he was gone.


End file.
